


Only by your hand

by meinposhbastard



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Just a Mention, M/M, but nothing kinky, there's a gun involved, there's something in the bathroom, they do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1568378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meinposhbastard/pseuds/meinposhbastard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bond’s only reason to break into that familiar flat is to kill the only person he came to trust implicitly over the years. His Quartermaster needs to be taken out, direct order from M.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only by your hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linnet](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linnet/gifts).



> This was finished somewhere at the beginning of this month, but only now has been corrected!
> 
> It was written for sweet R, because she deserved a 10 minutes break from studying to read some porn XD 
> 
> I mean, c'mon! Everybody needs that! XD (with moderation, eh!)

 

OoOoO

The shower is running when he reaches the bedroom door. His Walther is ready for use. His posture is slightly crouched. He has to do it. That’s his job. No agent disobeys a direct order from M. At least, not a perfectly functional assassin.

He approaches the bathroom cautiously and pushes the door open, since it has been left ajar.

The steam has already clouded the mirror above the sink and the shower’s frosted glass doors, but he can still make out the blurry silhouette of a slender, though sensual, body and a mop of dark hair.

He lifts his gun, pointing it at his Quartermaster’s head.

A second later, the water stops running and the frosted doors glide open, revealing wet skin and a surprised expression. Q freezes in place.

James pulls off the safety of his Walther _achingly_ slowly.

He looks Q in the eye, but he takes _all_ of his body into account. It’s impossible for James _not_ to do it, when there is so much passion involved, so many memories that are still _there_ , mixing together in the stupid distance that separates them.

This situation shatters his already broken self in another million tiny pieces.

It’s a direct order from his superior. He must kill his Quartermaster, since he has become a liability to MI6, and therefore England. That’s what he does. It’s his job as an assassin to pull as many triggers as it is needed to ensure the safety of his Queen (which then expands to the whole country).

Q never breaks the eye contact as his surprised expression morphs into an amused smile.

“Three months and twelve days until M officially declares me a threat.” Q says, his voice a perfect symphony of stretched vowels and posh accent. “He took me rather lightly, don’t you think?”

He makes no move to reach for a towel, his naked body on full display for James’ eyes only. He’s not sure if Q does it purposefully, or if it’s just the result of the amount of trust the young man has in Bond. Knowing his Quartermaster, there’s a high possibility that it’s a mixture of both.

Bond doesn’t yield. This is a mission. Even if they have something that runs deeper than a simple superior-employee relationship, he is still an agent, he must still execute the order.

“You can’t blame us.” James says, his voice even. “Everybody thought you were just playing some little game to stave off your boredom.”

“Until that little game became too much of a national threat to risk ignoring it any longer.” Q states, an amused smirk curving up his lips.

They stare at each other, neither one of them in any rush to break the eye contact. Actually, they seem to drink each other in, as if their last contact wasn’t yesterday in the early morning.

For James, that’s probably what makes him hesitate. Yesterday morning everything was alright, or as alright as a working day might be. They were flirting innocently with each other, making Eve (in more than one occasion, since she had a bit of work to take care of with Q) roll her eyes amusedly at it, lifting the gloom Q-Branch managed to tumble into after 003 went missing (but was intercepted a long four hours afterwards, badly injured, twelve miles away from his last point of contact).

Neither of them thought they would meet in Q’s bathroom a day and a half later with Bond aiming his Quartermaster’s very own invention at him.

There’s no gun kink intent in the agent’s rigid posture. If nothing else, he’s trying to imagine how it would be like after he pulls the trigger, as he did so many _bloody_ times. What would the colour of Q’s blood be like. Would it be a dark red, dripping profusely from the imagined hole left behind by the bullet, or a light red? Would Q’s serene expression waver a bit, but remain intact as he would fall on the cold bathroom floor?

Would that same expression hunt James for the rest of his days?

It would.

He is painfully sure.

The tension starts to make its presence known when Q dares to step out of his shower cabin. His steps are light and leave wet footprints on the dark blue sandstone. There’s something tantalizing and suave in the way he walks naked as opposed to the way he does when he’s clothed. It’s as if he is nude on a deeper level; as if, right now, James sees Q’s defenseless inner self, a physical projection of it.

So sensual in its vulnerability.

It’s raw in every possible way. It triggers the protectiveness Bond always felt towards his Quartermaster, but on a whole new level of fierceness.

He tenses, his index finger pressing slightly on the trigger, but not moving otherwise.

“I need to kill you, Q.” The agent states, a slim thread of fear (because he never knew imagining Q’s death would shatter again the already broken pieces in him) making its way into his voice. “M’s direct order.”

“You say you need. How come you don’t _want_ to?” He asks looking straight at him with mild curiosity as the barrel of James’ gun presses into Q’s bare and wet chest.

It’s cold for a moment or two, but as with anything cold, it immediately steals some of Q’s after-shower warmth.

He doesn’t stop there, though. He continues pressing into it, until only half of the keg’s length separates their bodies. Bond let the weapon slide down on Q’s damp skin, but stopped somewhere to the left side of his stomach.

James’ eyes have never been clearer than right now. Not as in blue as a summer’s sky, but as in brimming with undisguised emotions and desire. The very conflicting nature of Q’s agent right there for Q to stare at, assess, drink in, _devour_. It makes him feel a low degree of giddiness. There’s love and affection that bounds him to this ( _his_ ) stubborn agent.

“Because I don’t.” James looks back at him with open sincerity and Q takes a few moments to just process the raw answer.

Their mouths are mere millimetres apart from each other, breaths mingling together, their chests almost touching.

Then, Q’s mouth quirks into a sly smirk.

“I’m your enemy, agent.”

“You’re my lover.”

Q’s sly smirk turns into an amused, yet fond smile.

“Oh?” He feigns surprise. “Then where did the whole ‘for Queen and country’ thing go?” He asks, taking a small step back to assess the agent’s face, the gun still attached to the side of his stomach. “You swore an oath when you became an agent. Are you deliberately going to break it by disobeying a direct order from your superior?”

The Walther is biting _playfully_ at Q’s skin, and he knows that both of them are aware of it. It’s as if they have created a protective bubble around themselves by being _this_ close, but at the same time neither one of them forgetting about the looming danger, the harsh reality that just waits for the perfect moment to _execute_.

“I’m not breaking any oath. I’m just making a logical decision here.”

Q’s eyes dart back and forth between Bond’s lips and his eyes while he speaks. He isn’t sure if he should be aroused or annoyed by his answer, but it seems his cock decides on the former as he gives an interested twitch.

What a spectacular moment to find a new kink. Though he’s not sure if the kink was born from the fact that James is flat-out lying to Q (and most probably to himself) or because there’s the barrel of a gun pressing in the side of his stomach, ominous menace ready to end it for Q.

He’s sure James won’t be the same if he decides to kill him, because Q has come to know what kind of man lurks just beneath the elegant layer of the suit and the protective shield that’s the agent.

Still, that doesn’t stop him from stating, “You’re lying through your teeth, James! Besides, love has hardly anything to do with logic.” Q lifts his chin mere inches as if he dares James to contradict him.

Bond has seen this posture many times. So _many_ times, usually when they had an argument, because Q likes nothing better than to prove James wrong. It’s his own version of closed off body language, but this time, Q is not trying very hard to prove his point.

It’s a meek protest.

“It depends on what perspective you’re looking from. Love is a subjective feeling.”

“Oh, James Bond ever the philosopher. Where were you hiding this side of you all this time?”

James smirks.

Q responds in kind, but then he takes the agent’s hand, where he still holds his gun. It’s an interesting contrast between damp, smooth and dry, calloused skin. He reconnects the barrel to his chest. They lock gazes, Q’s face an elegant paint of calmness and serenity. Bond looks at him warily.

“I like our flirtatious selves, dear James, I really do, but you can’t forget your mission.” He’s a bastard, and a selfish one for that matter. He knows. He can’t help it. “I’ve gone rogue. I’m a threat to Queen and Country. You can’t leave me alive.” He tightens his hand on Bond’s, mostly because he can read the hesitation on his face.

The tension becomes insufferable for James and it clicks in right then and there, while his eyes are still staring into Q’s.

He pushes the safety on, though he doesn’t withdraw the gun. Q frowns.

“I’m not doing it.” The agent says firmly. “I won’t be your assassin.”

“You know, everything I’ve done during the last couple of months was exactly what I wanted to do. Nobody forced me.” A small pause. “As if such a person even exists.” He rolls his eyes, which pulls a small smile from Bond. “I’ve put all those people I swore to protect in danger and you’re actually letting yourself be driven by your feelings?” Q scoffs, turning his head to one side, not wanting to look at him anymore.

Bond slips a hand around the back of his neck and pulls him in until there’s barely a millimetre separating their lips. The gun never leaves Q’s chest. He doesn’t make any move to kiss him, though. The young man is suddenly forced to drown in those icy blue eyes of his agent (yes, he’s still _his_ ; nobody could ever take that fact away from Q or convince him otherwise).

“I chose to make a different oath when I found that I trusted you completely.” Bond says against his mouth and Q’s eyes widen minutely. “I chose it over my job’s oath because it’s the only one that feels real and true to me right now. I’m only human, Q. You’ve become my beacon of light when everything else goes to hell and beyond. Now tell me, what person would be stupid enough to sacrifice their _sanity_ just to do a job?”

Q’s breathing is laboured by the end of Bond’s little confession and he can’t bring himself to make a joke out of it or to throw one of his many snarky remarks. The underlying message James’ words hold is a pleading of his loyalty to Q.

Heavy information to digest.

He releases a shaky sigh and then brings his other hand to James’ nape, crushing their lips together. In due time it evolves into a forceful, bruising kiss. Both of them feel the immediate need to reaffirm their feelings, to prove to themselves and one another that this is real. This is what they have and cherish deep down. To prove to each other that this is them. Guns and technology, glasses and tailored suits, blue eyes and dark, curly hair, naked bodies and broken selves mending each other as best they can.

Their sensual, dangerous dance.

The kiss is so intense, Q actually manages to push the agent against the opposite wall, dismissing the fact that the Walther’s barrel will leave some obvious marks on his chest.

It’s okay. This cheeky and stubborn agent needs to learn a thing or two about the consequences of such a confession. Q won’t take it as lightly as he is probably supposed to do, and he knows he’s in for another exploration of treacherous territory.

He makes haste, divesting the agent of his suit jacket, all the while still kissing him. James has the presence of mind to remove the Walther from Q’s chest and let it fall down on the floor. The sound it makes at the moment of impact is ignored by both of them.

The sudden need to feel skin on skin is unbearable for the young man. He’s grateful he is already ready for action. When Bond’s shirt is finally out of the way together with the tie (possibly some buttons have gone flying in the process, but when needs must… ) he goes for the trouser button, trailing his slim fingers down Bond’s broad chest and worked abdomen.

“I decided that day that when I’ll die, it’ll be by your hand. Only by your hand.” Bond whispers breathlessly when Q separates himself a bit, still touching the man’s lips with his own. “It will always be you, Q.”

“Damn it, James.” Q swears under his breath, making quick work of the last remaining pieces of James’ clothing.

The moment Q’s hard length glides along Bond’s, both of them hiss, but only Q shudders uncontrollably. He lets his head fall on his lover’s shoulder, closing his eyes to savour the intense sensations it provokes in him. He moves his hips forward, an experimental thrust, because really, why should he contain himself when all he has to do is _take_? The friction is _delicious_ , pulling out a delighted groan from Q.

It’s not enough, though.

Q reaches blindly for one of James’ hands, both of which are currently on his hips. When he takes hold of his wrist he brings it up. He lifts his head before looking straight into his eyes and licks the agent’s palm, making a show of it.

Bond’s pupils immediately dilate, as if he wasn’t aroused enough as it is. The combination of visual and tactile sensory stimulation is so powerful, every thought disappears completely from James’ mind replaced by Q’s tongue, Q’s piercing eyes, Q’s cock-- _Q_.

He doesn’t hate the sudden assault, he _welcomes_ it. It’s been a while since Bond felt so grounded by his lover.

After Q decides James’ palm is slick enough, he guides his hand down, where their cocks are still rubbing against each other (the hand on Q’s hip encouraging him to continue) and the moment he wraps Bond’s slick hand around both of them, Q’s eyes fall shut of their own accord, a small moan escaping from his open mouth adorned with pink, wet lips. He immediately starts thrusting his hips through the tight hole James’ fingers have made, lost in the pure pleasure of it.

Bond watches Q with rapture and a hunger so intense he dives in for a kiss, though it’s more teeth and uneven breaths mingling together than a proper kiss. He wants him _so much_ , it drives him nuts.

The precome that leaks from their lengths makes the slide easier and more sensual and Q feels he could go like this for hours, always on the edge, but never falling over.

James’ mouth slides down the column of Q’s neck , biting and kissing the skin erratically, which elicits sweet whimpers and moans from his Quartermaster. He climbs up to his jaw, scraping his teeth along it and then he’s on Q’s mouth again, because there’s no sense in denying himself anything from his little pleasures, is there now?

Bond’s attempt at kissing fails, though, since the thrusting has picked up in speed and they’re both concentrated on reaching the climax than anything else.

“So close.” Q manages to whisper, looking at James through half open eyelids. “So fucking _close_!”

They look at each other, sharing breath and eye contact, divine friction and the glorious orgasm that takes both of them by surprise.

Every muscle goes taut in their bodies, their eyes squeezed shut while they ride their release.

Fifteen minutes later (cleaned and dazed from their climax, but still naked) they are covered by Q’s silver sheets, Bond nuzzling and occasionally kissing his lover’s nape. He needs to feel the possessiveness in the agent’s tight and welcoming embrace, since it’s the only thing that can reassure that small part of him that’s always insecure.

The warmth they share is all the conversation they’ll have tonight, before they both fall asleep.

OoOoO

 

When the rays of light become too strong on his face, Bond opens his eyes, but not before realizing there’s an empty space in his arms.

Q’s side is cold.

On his pillow lies his Walther and a small yellow piece of paper.

_You know, I hate it when you play my knight in shining armour._

He smiles.

Well.

At least he knows Q is alive. Far away from him, but alive.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this ficlet in 3 hours :3
> 
> It was on a whim. Well, I could have ignored the idea that popped in my head, but I said 'why not? I'll make it short'. The idea happened after I watched the trailer to a game called Hitman that featured the scene in the bathroom that is this ficlet's setting. In the trailer, the guy killed the lady in the shower.
> 
> I'm particularly proud of the result ^^


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